Chapter 7

Alinor was surprisingly beautiful for a country full of xenophobic, genocidal maniacs. The palm trees towered over the orange orchards, waving in the wind as if to greet them. The sand was as golden as the inhabitants, and the Spire that grew from the surrounding groves like a spike of Order crystal shown with every color there was, as delicate as a piece of coral and sporting ornate bridges to smaller, equally beautiful spires, each winking a different color in the sunlight. Telki wondered what sort of madness gripped these elves, that they could be given a paradise like this, and be so desperate to turn it into a hell on Nirn.

“We’ll be docking soon,” the captain called, sweating a little as he looked at the place. “Those of you that enlisted for duty, I recommend you be ready to depart the moment we dock. Be armored up and have all your stuff in hand.”

Telki grabbed her knapsack and bumped Mercutio, waking him. “Grab your bag, it’s time.” Honestly, that man could sleep anywhere. She once found him asleep standing against a tree.

“You ready for this, princess?” asked one of the other recruits, giving Telki a sideways smile. He’d been doing that a lot.

Her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “Princess? Oh my stars, aren’t you a surprise? I never in a million thought I’d rank Princess. Hellion? Yes. Princess? No.”

He grinned and offered his hand. “I’m Hyaril.”

“Telkaryion. Apparently, mother thought more syllables the better. I usually shorten it to Telki.” She shook his hand politely, wondering if the poor sod knew what precisely was going on here. He seemed too nice for this mess.

“‘Telki,’” he tried it out for himself. “Sounds Khajiit,” he commented with a shrug.

“Does it? I never noticed.”

“It does,” he confirmed, leaning in a little. The ship rocked and he nearly fell over. He flushed sunset orange. “I’m glad we’ll be on solid land sooner rather than later.”

“Same. Though there’s something about the water that’s appealing, at least the ground doesn’t usually try to pitch me over.”

“Well, if it does, I’ll be happy to give you a hand,” Hyaril offered.

“Awww, so gallant!” Telki gave him a slightly puzzled smile. “Though you may have to duel Merkelwyn for that honor. Merkelwyn, this is my new friend, Hyaril; Hyaril, this is my beau, Merkelwyn.”

Behind her, Merc was watching the Altmer with a husband’s eye. He was hitting on her, and Telki, being Telki, was utterly oblivious. He shook his head in wonder.

Hyaril looked around her and caught Merc’s displeased expression. “Oh, uh, nice to meet you,” he said, suddenly looking just as nervous as the captain. Sailors saved him from having to make any further conversation as they rushed around them, looping ropes around the dock posts and pulling the ship in. The Thalmor that were returning started lining up on the dock in two rows.

“Alright, so, where do the raw recruits line up, then?” Telki looked about. Was it too much to hope there’d be a ‘newbies, line up here’ sign posted?

“Well, you could do what you normally do, and just start your own,” teased Merc. Telki raised an eyebrow at him. “No, no you don’t have to, you really don’t.” She simply smiled back as she stepped off the boat, and started a third line right next to the dour faced Thalmor. Several others watched this with various expressions of confusion, obviously as lost as they were.

“Hyaril, you have a front row seat to the mess you just narrowly avoided getting caught up in.” Merc hefted his knapsack on his back, and followed Telki, as always.

The Altmer blinked at him, then followed with the rest of the recruits, who obviously assumed Telki knew something they didn’t. The Thalmor in the other two lines glanced at them with various expressions, but most of them had to stop their lips from twitching, either up or down.

They stood there while the rest of the ship was unloaded, the new recruits fidgeting and fanning themselves occasionally from the morning sun, the older members obviously resisting doing the same. The ship pushed off and sailed away before anything new happened. A breeze sprang up, cooling their faces but doing nothing for what baked beneath the moonstone armor.

Everyone jumped at the same time. One moment the dock was empty, the next he was there, standing there like he’d been doing it all morning, simply looking them over. Telki didn’t jump, exactly, but she did give him a double take. With Rommy and Sam popping in on her whenever they felt like it, her first response was ‘oh hi.’ The second response was ‘who’s learned their trick and why don’t I know it yet?’ So she openly inspected him as he was inspecting them, and then she Looked at him.

He appeared Altmer, with slightly curling white-blond hair tightly bound at the base of his neck, and impassive golden eyes that took in every detail before him. Hands clasped behind his back in a parade-rest position, he simply faced them for a long moment as they tried not to fidget. His aura was as calm and unruffled as he appeared to be, and he was tagged in the same way the others were. So he was another hostage, but was he a willing hostage?

“Welcome,” he said, not sounding welcoming at all, not sounding anything, really. His speech was not monotone, nor disinterested, but there was a quality to it that didn’t ring either true or false. The word simply was. Telki’s ears perked as much as their cropped Altmer appearance would let them. Presactly what was going on with this guy? He was interestingly different, and she just had to know how he ticked. Behind her, she could hear a soft fervent “Oh gods, please no.” Apparently, her piqued curiosity had been noted.

The elf had good hearing, for his eyes flickered over to them briefly. “Those of you returning, you know where you’re supposed to be. Get yourselves there. I will see you again after lunch. The rest of you, turn. Let me get a look at you.”

Telki gave a big sigh, and dutifully turned around, barely suppressing an urge to turn it into a proper pirouette. She’d gotten better without her tail, but she wasn’t quite ready to try anything complicated or tricksy, yet.

Walking up and down the line once, his feet making no sound on the dock, he looked them over, his face giving absolutely no clue as to what he made of them. Finally, he stopped near the middle of the line. “Face me,” he ordered the line softly, his voice somehow managing to carry over the waves and clamor of the servants taking the cargo inside. The wide berth he was given wasn’t missed on most of the recruits. Telki wondered what he’d have them do next.

“I am Talon,” he told them, noting many of them flinch, Merc included. “I am Weapons Master on this estate, and it is I that shall be in charge of evaluating your uses.” Those hooded eyes looked up and down the line again, lingering just a moment on Telki. Catching his eye on her, she gave him a quick, mischievous nose scrunching wink, just because. There was no way she was going to fly under the radar, so the best she could hope for was the typical dismissal.

The Weapons Master didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Starting at the right end of the line, tell me your given names and speciality. Begin.”

Telki sighed. “Telkaryion: archery, alchemy, and enchanting.”

“Merkelwyn: Conjuration, Destruction, Alteration and Illusion.”

“Hyaril: Destruction and Restoration.”

It continued down the line, every recruit yammering off their name and what they specialized in. Through it all Talon’s expression never changed, his weight didn’t shift, and he barely seemed to notice the sun or wind. Telki really needed to understand how the devil he existed in the first place. She’d never met someone like him.

Mercutio just hoped and prayed his own prayer hadn’t put him on the mer’s radar. Telki, there was no hope. She’d get noticed, but she was generally good at becoming so obvious she quit being noticed. He, however, would have to go about it the old fashioned way. So he spoke only when directed, tried not to fidget, and desperately hoped those placid eyes kept right on roving over him as if he were simply another immaterial part of the line.

Talon nodded when the line was through, though he hadn’t written any of their names down or even shown he was particularly listening very hard. “Raise your hand if you know how to use one-handed weapons,” he demanded softly.

Mercutio winced; Gideon had insisted he learned to use more than just a dagger. He raised his hand with the others, just a little slower than Telki’s.

“Line up behind me,” Talon instructed. “The rest of you, run. Run on the beach up to the Spire and back to that training ground there,” he pointed. “There is more to being a Thalmor than knowing magic. Your magicka will run out; don’t let it be the death of you. Practice running while you can.”

Telki, knowing the others probably were too scared to be the first to move, obediently lined up behind Talon. She liked his advice. She’d heard something similar more than once from Gideon. That she was finding positive similarities there gave her hope Talon wasn’t a willing Thalmor, and she had a feeling the Weapons Master would be very handy to have on their side.

Finally moving from his spot, Talon watched the ragged remains of the line trundle out to the beach, grumbling the entire time. Turning, he regarded those left. “Follow me,” he said simply, then started up the dock, leading them to the practice ground. They passed under several orange trees getting there, so old their branches were tangled together in a canopy over the path. Emerging on the other side, he simply waved toward a line of benches, indicating they should sit. “Pair off.”

Telki walked to the furthest bench, and waited for Mercutio to join her, which he did. “You know there’s a good chance we’re about to spar,” Telki warned lowly.

“It won’t be the last time you kick my can.”

“You might kick mine. I’m still getting my balance, and I was never that good.”

“Who rolled right under my feet, knocking me over, and then sat on my chest?”

“Just the once, sheesh.”

“Erandur’s still laughing about it.”

“He shouldn't: When I did that to him, he wound up in a horse trough.” She quieted when a shadow fell over them.

The Weapons Master looked them over for a long moment. “Pick a different pairing,” he told them. “Lovers go easy on each other, and I want a proper evaluation of your skills.” He moved on without waiting for them to argue or comply.

“Well foo.” Telki resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at his back, barely. She huffed, and collected herself. “So, shall I make Hy’s day? The gal he’s sitting with was eyeing you on the boat.”

“He knew, Telki.” Merc’s voice trembled just a bit. Honestly, more people should attend Bard’s College. It was apparently the only place that taught common sense.

“Why do you think I said ‘no’ so emphatically to posing as family? There's no way our body language says anything else than ‘we’re comfortable in each other’s pants.’ A competent Weapons Master would pick that up right away. Every scrap we know about this guy says he’s more than competent.” Telki got up and walked to Hyaril.

“Apparently, kicking my beau’s rear in sparring is a nono. May I kick yours?” Telki gave him her best impish smile.

“Of course! Wait,” Hyaril paused, realizing what he had just said as the girl snickered, then gave Telki an inquiring look as to where she should be heading.

“My guy is right over there. Don’t bruise him too badly, I have plans for him later.” Telki pointed to Merc, and he obligingly waved to the girl.

“Oh, he’s yours? Darn,” the girl said good-naturedly. “Guess I’ll just have to take my frustration out on him now.”

“Honestly, bruise him too badly, and I’ll be miffed. I’m very good with herbs and potions,” Telki warned, only half joking.

“I haven’t done this in a few years—I’ll probably be the one taking a few bruises,” the girl assured her with a wince. “Still,” she paused, glancing back to where Talon was bossing someone else around, “there seem to be a lot of attractive men around.”

“Yeah, if I didn’t have Merc, I’d probably be all over Hyaril like a bad rash.” Telki flitted her eyelashes at him. “Really, you’re adorable.”

Hyaril clearly did not know how to take that, but the girl laughed aloud before making her way over to Merc, reaching out a hand. “I’m Minoena. I’m bad at this. You’ve been warned.”

“Pardon me if I don’t take you at your word,” Merc smiled at her, “but the last pretty girl that told me that proceeded to thump me into the ground. The name’s Merkelwyn, pleasure to meet you.” He offered her his hand and she shook it.

“Find places and begin. I’ll be around to evaluate you,” Talon called from across the grounds.

“I, uh, I’ve never...why don’t you try to hit me first?” Hyaril asked.

“Oh Hy, you are too sweet to be believed. What are you even doing here?” Telki wondered at him. “Okay, pretend I just said something really mean, like. ‘Talos is real’ or something.”

Looking a little shocked, he brought his sword around. It wasn’t a terrible strike, but it was pretty obvious he wasn’t the best swordsman. Telki shook her head, caught it on her first axe, and hooked him behind the knees with her second axe, putting him on his duff.

“Okay, now, can I get a real effort, cutie?” Telki teased, giving him a hand up. “I’m not kidding about the alchemy. I probably have enough with me to heal your bruises, mine, Merc’s, and the cute girl.”

“Er, alright,” he managed, blushing. This time his strike was a little better, and he didn’t seem quite so nervous. “I’ve never...I never fought a girl before,” he confessed. “My sisters...they don’t like swords all that much.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, most girls in Skyrim’s first love was an edged weapon. Cyrodiil has women in the Legion. You’re going to have to learn to see an opponent, not your little sisters, or we’ll lose you. I don’t want to see that happen.” Telki parried the stroke, while going again for the knees, humming appreciatively when he dodged it this time, but missed the disarm she did with the axe that caught his blow.

The poor Altmer’s eyes were wide as he watched her. “You...those are Lesser Races,” he said uncertainly.

“I’m from Cyrodiil, I grew up amongst the ‘Lesser Races.’ And if you think that being born Altmer is enough to save you from a Lesser Race that’s had training his or her whole life, I’ll wind up crying like crazy over your grave first thing you know.”

He grinned, “So you’d miss me already?”

“Of course, you’re adorable.” Telki scrunched her nose at him, “And you’ve not given me a reason yet to not like you. You’re on probation. Don’t muck it up. Ready to go again?”

“That’s enough,” Talon said from behind her. Hyaril actually shrieked a little when he jumped. Telki looked askance at him, though obediently lowered her axes.

“Telkaryion, Minoena, Merkelwyn, Yannalmo, Gladyntar: step aside. The rest of you, go run.” He walked to the middle of the ground without examining her further, retrieving a light blade from a bench. After the rest left, he looked them all over. The last two called were both young Altmer men, and one looked confident while the other looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. “Gladyntar,” he said, making the morose one jump, “Come at me.”

Closing his eyes, the recruit gave a hoarse battle-cry and dove in. Talon almost made an expression for a moment before simply side-stepping, knocking the sword out of his hand, and letting him fall to the dirt. “Spent some time in Skyrim, Gladyntar? Yelling and rushing into battle is a Nord tactic, and you have years of conditioning to go before I’d let you face one of those.”

Telki put another checkmark in the ‘maybe’ column for keeping Talon. He complimented her adopted homeland and didn’t dismiss it or the Nords. She was also impressed: There was literally no wasted movement on Talon’s part, every move precise and deadly. She was not looking forward to her turn. She was more of a reactive fighter than a proactive fighter, unless she had her trusty longbow. Then, she was a deadly sniper. She wondered when he’d allow her to demonstrate. She was fairly sure she could put their best archer to shame.

“Yannalmo,” he called, and the recruit rushed him without any further ado. This time it took a bit longer, as the young elf swung furiously at the Weapons Master, who simply continued to step out of the way, never moving far from his original spot. When he did raise his sword, it sent the other elf’s spinning into the underbrush. “Your ancestors are probably drinking right now,” he lightly mocked the young recruit, “trying to ignore this.”

The recruit gaped at his empty hands, then glared at the Weapons Master, a Conjuration spell starting in his right hand, and a sword beginning to form. Talon slapped the back of the hand with the flat of his blade, not seeming bothered at all, then stepped inside the other man’s grasp and hit him behind the ear with his pommel. Yannalmo went down like a stunned horse. “Merkelwyn, drag him out of our way then grab your sword.”

“Aye sir.” He wasn’t especially careful doing it. Yannalmo’s face probably caught a few more rocks and things than it might should have, dragging him out to the side. He then sighed and doffed his blade at the Weapons Master. “We who are about to be humiliated, salute you.” Well, he had been running with Telki. It was bound to rub off sooner or later. Strangely enough, this time Talon came to him, and Mercutio found himself hard pressed to use every trick Gideon taught him to keep his sword and to keep himself unbruised.

Minoena giggled. “Where did you find him and does he have any brothers?” she whispered to Telki.

“Would you believe me if I said he’s been incredibly unforthcoming about his family? I sometimes wonder if he’s a disinherited son or something.” Telki shook her head. “Their loss, he’s amazing.”

The humor left her face and the ash-blond elf looked down. “Family can sometimes be unpleasant,” she concurred. Telki decided it was time to change the subject.

“Sweet mothering Mara, is my man handsome or what?” Telki eyed Talon critically. “And if I’m honest, Weapons Master Talon is a delight to the eye as well. It’s like watching music take form.”

Minoena gave a small, almost ladylike snort, “I especially like it when he smiles,” she quipped ironically, chin in her hand.

“You’ve seen him before?” Telki asked as the girls drifted back to sit on a bench together. So far, she’d seen some almost expressions, but no smiles yet. Perhaps that could be her Opus Magnum, making Talon smile. Surely it would be a divine work in itself.

“Heard of him. Doesn’t seem as sadistic as the tales imply, but then, it’s only our first day,” the woman shrugged, braiding her hair back up and off her neck.

“Now that I hadn’t heard. I wonder if it’s like some other rumors I’ve run afoul, suppositions and assumptions rather than fact.”

“No idea, but I’m not looking forward to fighting him. I’d say this is like watching a cat with a mouse if I thought for a second he felt something other than...I don’t know what he’s feeling.”

Telki gave her an admonishing look. “Honey, did you catch the difference? He had to show the first two they were big headed idiots. Merc straight off told him he was no match, so now he’s seeing how much he knows, and what he’s going to have to teach him. It’s like, a placement test.”

Minoena wrinkled her nose. “Maybe I’ll close my eyes and run at him, too.”

“No, be honest. That will keep you safer than anything else. Please.” Telki winked at her. “If you do, I’ll share my bruise liniment with you after.”

The young woman gave her a look of astonishment. “Alright,” she finally said. “I mean, I’m not looking to climb through the ranks, or anything. I’m just supposed to be here to make connections and make Father look good, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Honey, it sounds like your father doesn’t know what a jewel he has. You come to me if you need help, okay?” Telki nodded as if everything was already settled her way. “Sometimes, the family we choose for ourselves is the family we shoulda had all along, and I wouldn’t mind adding you for a sister.”

“You just met me,” Minoena said flatly, blinking.

“Yeah, but I like what I know so far. You’re on probation. Don’t muck it up,” Telki bumped shoulders with her.

Minoena blushed orange. “Well, they did say I’d meet interesting people in the Thalmor,” she muttered to herself.

“Did they?” Telki murmured as she watched them fight. “I wonder what their definition of interesting is, then.” Holy cow, Telki didn’t know Mercutio had even learned that spin, and the counter-swing Talon made? How did he get his arm that far around his back? It was pure music in motion, point and counterpoint, melody and harmony. She didn’t realize she was slipping into full True Sight watching them. That link was still there, and Telki inspected it as much as she dared. She did not want to alert the Ideal Masters, or whomever set the thing, and she certainly didn’t want to kill Talon. What she did want, though, was some clue as to what the focus was, or maybe a hint of where it was. Maybe something in the construction of the link could give her those clues, so she studied it carefully.

Growing frustrated, she glanced around...and noticed a few more links hidden in the trees. Curiouser and curiouser, they were apparently shy of the new recruits.

Meanwhile, Talon was testing Mercutio with light blows. Merc used every block and evasive maneuver Gideon taught him, but even so, he couldn’t last forever. It took a quarter-hour, but Talon finally disarmed Mercutio, his blade sent spinning into the brush, and Mercutio looked like a hard run horse, complete with lather and dust.

“There is a pump over there,” was all Talon said, nodding to the metal spigot half hidden in shadow.

“Thank you,” Mercutio wheezed, and rather inelegantly stuck his head under the running water.

“That’s my man,” Telki sighed comically.

“Minoena,” Talon called, making the girl sigh as she rose, looking like she was trudging to her death. Their fight did not last nearly as long as the previous one, though it did showcase that Minoena had more skill than she’d given herself credit for. He stopped her without disarming her or laying her out. “You were classically trained?” he asked, and at her wary nod, began to verbally test her on her instructors and particular levels. By the time he was done she rather looked as if she’d prefered he have laid her out or disarmed her.

Telki clapped for her, completely unironically. “Your turn,” was all the Altmer said, all but collapsing on the bench. “And for the record, I take it back. He’s not attractive. He’s a daedra.”

“No, I can vouch for his not daedraness. I know too many Conjurors without sense.” Telki sat there watching Talon. Should she wait? Get up? She was the last one. Did he want a breather? She didn’t see any sweat.

“Telkaryion,” Talon called, watching her. She sighed, and got up from her place.

“I trained with Merkelwyn, if that helps. I would never come at you with axes. A hundred yards and a bow? Maybe.” Telki examined him, “If I had a strong enough invisibility potion I was sure you couldn’t see me.”

“I shall see tomorrow what you can do with a bow,” was all he said, raising his sword to guard position. “Come at me with axes today. I wish to see your skill.”

“I’d rather you just pummel me around the yard like you did Merc.” Telki eyed him, watching his guard, and finding it flawless. “Can we do that instead?”

There was a long moment’s pause. “If you do not defend yourself, I will hurt you,” he warned, then came at her.

“Defend myself, against you? Possibly. Definitely more likely than me getting a lick on you.” Telki dodged, rolled, and got her axes up just in time. Talon’s sword rang off them, then changed angle, coming around to slice the air right where Telki would have been, had she not rolled away. Talon turned with her, one hand still behind his back as it had been all morning. Again, crossed axes caught the blow, quick flick of the wrists battling to disarm each other. Telki barely kept her grip, and she found herself leaping back from a clever backswing. “Sweet mothering Mara are you fast!”

Talon’s eyebrows twitched upwards, and his sword swung around again, feinting left then abruptly angling down and right. Telki squawked and yelped, but she kept up, barely keeping her skin intact, her commentary never ceasing the entire battle. Abruptly, Talon moved something besides his arm, his leg darting out to hook behind her ankle as she dodged, yanking her legs out from under her. If she’d had a tail still, that would have really made her a tail kinker.

“Timberrrr!” She ducked and rolled with the fall, popping back up to her feet to find his sword at her neck. “Hi?”

The Weapons Master’s golden eyes examined her minutely. “You talk too much,” he finally said.

“Well, in my limited experience, it's a help, not a hinder. I don’t usually come up against exceptionally well balanced people like you,” Telki shrugged. “But, if you want me to try to curb it, I will.”

“You use too much breath on it,” he informed her, removing the sword from her throat.

“Bard training.” She ducked her head, “They um, they teach you to improve your breathing by singing or something while exercising. So, for me, it was during weapons practice.”

“Stick to humming for a while,” Talon ordered, turning away. “You three are the best at sword’s work,” he added. “When practice comes, you’ll be partnered with older recruits. Telkaryion, whatever is throwing your balance off, see to it.”

“Aye sir.”

“All of you, run up to the Spire and ask for the mess hall,” he said, apparently done with them for the time being.

“Aye sir!” Telki gathered the still knackered Mercutio and allowed him to lean on her as she held an elbow out for Min. “Shall we?”

“Will there be shots?” Min muttered, “It’s a little early in the day, but by night we won’t even care!”

“Poor darlin. Tell you what, if there isn’t, I’ll brew something just for you. How’s that?” Telk shifted Merc. “And you, when did you get so heavy of a sudden?”

“Careful, Telki,” Min nudged her side, “I might think you’re trying to adopt me or something.”

“Oh, I am. You and Hyaril. You’re too sweet for this place, honestly, the pair of you,” Telki shook her head. “I want to take you both home and keep you.”

“And you’re not?” Min asked with a laugh, pewter blue eyes taking on a bit more cheer.

“I made his eyebrow twitch. Did you see?” Telki snickered. “I’m too much mischief to be sweet.”

“Uh-huh,” Min nodded and rolled her eyes, reaching up and patting Telki’s cheek. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The Dragonborn glanced over her shoulder to see the practice area was empty, “As Aetherius as my witness, I will make that mer smile before this is all over.”

Min snorted again. “Careful. Making impossible vows is how ghosts are made.”

“Eh, I know how to settle a ghost, had to do that a time or three already.” Telki winked at Min, “And keeping impossible promises is kinda my thing.”

~~~

Shell sat with her back against the trunk of a massive old tree, fiddling with her dagger and looking out over the waves. She was bored. Never good; her thoughts tended to wander when she was bored, and she didn’t particularly care for the direction they were headed lately. She’d been spending an awful amount of time in the pits, joining her mother visiting Tyr and Orien, listening to Gideon tell impossible, witty stories about his wife and life outside in general. Occasionally, Tyr matched him with a tale from before his imprisonment. It all sounded very strange to her, and the idea that she might join that world was so ephemeral it was really no more than momentary weakness. Still, it was one she was indulging with increasing frequency.

Idly, she stabbed the little blade into her palm, feeling the shock of the wound course up her nerve endings for a moment, sharpening her mind. Blood started to well and she Healed it, doing it a few more times before that novelty wore off, and sighed, staring back over the water again. Her mother loved doing that, just looking at the waves, lost in thought. It was unreal, really. Shell felt about ready to scream.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite pupil.”

The amused drawl from below hit her like a paralysis spell. She didn’t move, she couldn’t. Her muscles locked in exactly the same position they were in, rather than tensing in fear. Her heart hammered in her chest so hard it made her ears throb. Taking a breath, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and cast a wry look down at the elf that had found her hiding place. Green eyes a few shades paler than hers. Rose-gold hair like her mother’s, cut short and shining with health. A near-perfect face marred only by a knife scar cutting through the right side of his mouth and down across his chin. She would give a lot to know who had managed to do that. “I’m your only pupil, Uncle,” she reminded him, baring her teeth in a smile, “the others didn’t live up to your standards.” The others didn’t live at all.

Ilmiyon laughed—whether at her words or because he saw right through her reaction, she wasn’t sure—and climbed the tree as nimbly as a cat. “The others were boring,” he retorted, settling himself on the branch beside hers, which was thankfully far enough away that he wasn’t touching her. “Not unexpected, given what a stick-in-the-mud Talon is. But you have something approaching a personality, and I like that.”

“You like toying with me, you mean,” she said bluntly, making him laugh again. Surprise him, she reminded herself. Keep him entertained. Ilmiyon was even more dangerous bored than she would ever be, and panic got old quickly.

“If it makes you feel better,” he teased, reaching over and ruffling her hair in a mockery of affection, “you are getting better at it. It only took you fifteen years, but I don’t always know what you’re thinking anymore.”

“Lucky me,” she drawled, making him laugh again.

“I heard they rescinded your mission to the Legion,” he revealed, leaning forward and dangling his hands between his knees, looking out over the water. “I wondered what you did. Of course,” he glance at her, eyes flicking up and down, “No one told me you suddenly developed dear Feyliin’s figure.”

“I’d make a terrible courtesan,” Shell said with complete honestly, “I’m not subtle.”

“You and me both,” he shrugged, giving her a little grin that was probably supposed to join them some way, to make her feel included in his little club of psychopathy. “But then, not all men want a subtle woman. Sister manipulated her first contract for half a dozen years before he outlived his usefulness, and she did it all through subtlety, being sweet and gentle and introspective and all those things.” Ilmiyon’s tone of voice clearly said he didn’t know how she bore it. “That’s what she’s good at; maneuvering people so gently they don’t even realize they’re being steered.”

“I’d rather just order them to go where I want or stab them,” Shell interjected, feeling uncomfortable with his analysis.

His delighted laughter rang through the sunny afternoon. “Oh, Niece, this is why you are my favorite.”

Shell was very nearly sick. Favorite? “Forgive me for not leaping for joy,” she drawled with heavy irony, swallowing back bile, “Mother told me what you did to some of your past favorites. Your favorite dog, your favorite Dremora, your favorite horse—”

“Speaking of horses,” he interrupted, “I heard you let a dumb Nord steal your mark out right from under you.” His eyes had gone hard, the brightness in them holding not mirth, but anticipation for how she would try to defend herself. Failed missions were nothing to laugh about, and it could be he had decided she needed more punishment than what the Weapons Master had already given her.

Running her tongue over the roof of her mouth, trying to get some moisture, she decided not to even try to offer a defense. Sighing and slumping against the tree, she gazed at her dagger as if she were a lovesick girl in a silly play, contemplating the fickle nature of the heart, “What can I say?” she breathed, not missing how his eyebrows shot up in the reflection along the blade. Ilmiyon rarely bothered to school his expressions anymore; he found it much more effective for those he tormented to know he was enjoying it. “He has a really cute butt.”

Ilmiyon nearly fell out of the tree laughing. Shell wished she had climbed higher, so she might just have had a chance to be rid of him. Then again, there were a lot of branches in this tree. There was too good a chance he would catch himself, then climb back up to return the favor.

“You too, huh?” he asked, wiping crocodile tears from his eye. “What Fey saw in that bloody-haired Nord long enough to breed him, I’ll never know. Of course,” he paused, “it is easier for women. All you have to do is lay there and take it.”

“Is that why you strangled the woman you were supposed to breed? You didn’t want the hassle?” Shell blurted, then wished she hadn’t. It didn’t do to ask her uncle too many questions, and it definitely didn’t do to insult him, even obliquely.

A slow smile slithered across his face, “She was much prettier begging for her life,” he purred softly, making her shiver. “If she couldn’t survive that, then I don’t want her blood polluting my offspring anyway.” The glance he gave her made goosebumps erupt on the back of her neck, “It’s a shame you’re my niece,” he said regretfully, “Given another fifty years or so, you might be at my level.”

“Thanks for that evaluation,” she said dryly. Even if they had been unrelated, the only thing she wanted between herself and Ilmiyon was a continent. And preferably an ocean for good measure.

“On that subject,” he leaned over and snatched her dagger from her hands before she knew what he was about, “I’ll be looking over the new batch of Young Ones soon.”

Cold dread knotted her stomach. “Oh? Is that really wise?” she raised an eyebrow at him, “Some of them are less than a year from their parent’s loving arms. One or two are crying about it yet.” The memory of Fey and Tyr holding Orien popped into her head out of nowhere, and her already clenched stomach lurched.

He wrinkled his nose, “Oh. That young, huh? Ew. I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t have the main say in which ones are culled, or there’d be no point bringing them in from the mainland.” Examining the blood still on her dagger from when she had stabbed her palm, he added, “Crying children bug the shit out of me. I’d rather deal with Talon. Or worse, Grandmother.” Popping the tip of the blade into his mouth, he licked the blood clean and slid it out, examining the newly cleaned blade. “I’d like to push that old bat off the Spire.”

Since she’d been wishing she could do something similar to him, she kept her mouth shut. In many ways, she was the most like her uncle. In others, he was a law unto himself. Faloniril had once lamented that if only his son had been born to an Altmer woman, he would have made him legitimate—the only time in her knowledge that a Young One would have been brought into the Family on this estate, rather than simply the Household, as Talon and the other Trainers had been. Ilmiyon had grinned and told the old man right to his face that he preferred it; being his heir would have been too much work, and he would have had to order someone else to do the killing for him. Somehow, Faloniril had been amused rather than offended by this. Shell still didn’t know how he’d done that.

“I hope the new recruits are more interesting. I did like watching Talon put most of them on their ass yesterday,” he said, flipping the dagger in the air and catching it. “There are a couple of cute ones, some stupid ones, one that he already sent home in disgrace, and the usual batch that are only here for politics.” The last was said with rolled eyes. Ilmiyon was a firm believer in not sending someone unsuited to do the job unless the point of it was for them to fail or die, or both.

Shell tilted her head thoughtfully, brushing her fingers idly through her hair as the wind caught the strands. Fey had mentioned the recruits to Gideon—could some of these be his contemporaries? She found it hard to believe an Altmer would work with a Nord, but there were plenty of dissidents to the Thalmor, as well she should know, since she’d been killing at least two a year since she was twelve. People really should pay more attention to children, honestly. Just because they were short and had big eyes didn’t mean they didn’t know where to stab, and in most cases were in an easier position to do so than adults, who had more of an obstacle in the form of arms.

She doubted Gideon would be so willing to hug her if he knew how often she’d used that as an opening for murder.

Ilmiyon made a sound of disgust, “I know that face. Fey makes that face whenever she’s thinking,” he rolled his eyes. “Look me up if you want your ass kicked,” he offered, leaving as abruptly as he came. Shell watched him go, the wind shifting and bringing the sounds and smell of the surf to her, the rhythmic susurration soothing over her overwrought nerves. Her mind went over the conversation, picking it apart for the little mind-games she knew he liked to play, despite his contempt of Fey doing the same.

Slipping out of the tree, she walked along the beach toward the second practice ground, the one the recruits didn’t use, because it was reserved for the house guard and another type of recruit altogether. Talon was there, and he gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his youngest pupils. Shell didn’t mind Talon so much. Yes, he was a hard ass, but he stuck to the rules with unbending exactitude, and that made his actions predictable, if not his motives. She wasn’t sure if he enjoyed his job, and didn’t really care, but he carried it out decade after decade with the same finesse and attention to detail he did any other mission, and she knew he still went on missions. He’d be useless as a Trainer if he didn’t.

Letting her eyes rove over the dozen or so Young Ones still left in this age group, she picked out her next youngest sibling with ease. Pearl, as their mother had dubbed her (not a Name in any sense, she told herself. None of them had actual Names), was sparring with another Young One, a boy with so much Dunmer in him it was almost impossible to tell the difference unless the one looking was a half-breed themselves, and knew what to look for. Pearl herself was like that: Her father had been a full-blooded Altmer, a Thalmor officer Faloniril had a bit of a grudge against. He’d sent his daughter in to break the man’s heart in the hopes of making him lose face. The order to get pregnant if she could was mostly an afterthought.

Hair the color of wheat and so fine it wafted on the breeze, Pearl must have favored her father in looks, because it was occasionally hard for even Shell to pick out their mother’s features in her, save for the triangle shape of her face, and the proportions of her features. Had her father not been an elf, they would know already if she would become beautiful enough to be a courtesan, but her growth was more elfin than human, and at twenty-three looked barely twelve. Being a courtesan took a particular ability to compartmentalize, however, that so far Pearl had not demonstrated, though she had inherited their mother’s serene manner.

Face carefully blank, she forced herself to evaluate her sister the way she would a mark she was sizing up.

Pearl’s strikes were weak. The boy clearly didn’t think so, but it was obvious she was holding back, probably in response to the fear and pain in his eyes. He was one of those that still hoped he would be sent home, ransomed or by someone discovering the “mistake” of him being brought here. He’d had a name once, and a family, and he longed for them. It wasn’t doing him any favors, Pearl going easy on him, but once again, as in all things, it seemed the girl was too kind. She probably would have been culled for it already if her magic hadn’t developed early. Now it was a waiting game, and every adult Young One knew it. Pearl would either become a great mage, or she would be killed for not being ruthless enough.

Tearing her eyes away, Shell let them fall on her youngest sister. Blossom was doing much better—grudgingly she admitted that she was better than Shell herself had been at that age—and was facing off against an opponent nearly twice her size. At least she and Shell had being tiny in common, though Blossom wasn’t part Bosmer, so Shell couldn’t imagine where she got it. Blossom had a bit of the same kindness problem Pearl did, but she was young enough to grow out of it yet. Shell made a mental note to give them both a lecture on being too nice the next time Fey managed to smuggle both girls out for some illicit play time. Their mother still felt uncomfortable with Shell spending time with her younger siblings, but she wouldn’t naysay her.

The mental picture of Orien sitting on Fey and Tyr’s laps intruded again. The happy, adoring expression on her brother’s face made her physically flinch before she turned away, heading toward the surf. She was supposed to be training, so she might as well go for a swim, though she doubted even the ocean could drown out the ugly, green emotion seizing her heart whenever she saw those three together.